


Escape Route

by ThePraxianWeasleyGeek



Series: Christmas giftfics 2018 [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Pre-Relationship, mild mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 16:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek/pseuds/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek
Summary: Rung gets a prison visit.





	Escape Route

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scraplette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scraplette/gifts).



> Happy belated Christmas, Scraplette! You drew me cygate nose boops, I wrote you Rung/Skids fixit! :D

“If you pull that trigger, it’s the beginning of the end. So go on…  _ squeeze _ .”

 

He didn’t. 

 

Whether that little show had been a simple intimidation tactic, or something less premeditated, Rung would surely never know. The councilmech spun on his heel and left, cloak flapping behind him… and Rung, once again, found himself staring at the door that had been his constant companion for two million years. 

 

He released a great sigh of breath, slumping in his bonds. 

 

He wanted to be certain that he could  _ always _ call the Functionists’ bluff - but he’d been observing a shift in the attitudes of his jailers over time, and it wasn’t one that hinted at stable or predictable behaviour in the future. There could very easily come a point when even the continued survival of the Cybertronian species mattered less than the doctrine that the council subscribed to. If Rung could see  _ that _ mapped out ahead, he surely had very little security in the grand scheme of things. 

 

After all, whatever he turned into, whatever collective epiphany the council had suddenly stumbled upon (and wouldn’t he like to know how that had come about, after so very long spent prodding and scanning and scratching their cyclopean heads) - it clearly posed just as much, if not more of a threat to them, than when his alt had had no function. There would come a point, too, when it was deemed too dangerous to keep him alive. 

 

Honestly, Rung would bet that ‘more of a threat’ was likely true. At least he’d never had a gun pulled on him when he was just the Useless One. 

 

And what angered Rung wasn’t that his days were now numbered. Death, on a personal level, was no longer the not-so-distant terror it might once have been, back when the Functionists first stole him away. His very plating was proof of that. He’d been pulled apart and examined and stitched back together, and shocked and shocked and shocked until crystals poured from his lips, like something out of a Golden Age folk-tale. Like his very spark was congealing. 

 

Quite simply, Rung had had enough of pain, and the idea of an end to it, even one so drastic, really didn’t concern him overmuch. The reason he was still hanging on - the reason he’d  _ been _ hanging on, for years and years, now - was the rebels. The ones who’d caught wind of his imprisonment, and the reason for it; who’d given him his title and used it to stir their sparks into action. Rung only ever caught snippets, here and there, about their activity, pieced together over agonizingly long periods, if disposables or cleaning staff happened to drop the odd piece of gossip while conversing. 

 

The fact that it was disposables and cleaning staff who tended to be his conduit bolstered Rung all by itself. 

 

Being strung up here whilst it all went on did make him feel a bit useless in fact as well as name, but it seemed that what they  _ needed _ was a symbol. If an accident of creation was enough to convince people that not everything was Primus-ordained ( _ Functionist _ -ordained), then Rung was happy to keep existing, no matter what that existence might entail. 

 

When the Functionists turned their instruments upon him, and agony lanced through his frame, he fought to push it aside. It was as much for his own sake as anything else, yet Rung dared to hope that news not only of his continued function, but his resilience, his small defiance of their overlords, might also leak its way back to the outside world; that someday a cleaner fed up with their lot could track down a member of the resistance (the AVL, he thought they called themselves - he  _ wished _ he knew what it stood for) and pass on the news. The Useless One was still alive and kicking, and so should they be. 

 

That was what he had to believe, anyway, or he would long ago have gone mad from the pain. 

 

On the worst days, he slipped away into wondering what he might say to one of these AVL people, should they ever meet face to face. Very rarely did he get past even ‘hello’ - there seemed so much he would have to communicate, and marshalling those thoughts was just as much a distraction from his circumstances as a genuine thing to ponder. He was sure they would all have plenty to say to him, and whether or not he was truly worthy of their regard, the thought of them all being alive and together one day in order to exchange those words was more than enough to hope for.

 

That, truly, was why One-of-Twelve's pronouncement filled Rung with fury and dread. If the trigger had been pulled... that would have been it. However unwisely, this AVL had built the spine of their resistance around Rung’s continued existence. He knew enough to know that should said existence cease, a crippling blow would be dealt to their organisation - one from which their morale might not recover. And there didn’t seem to be so much as a whisper of any other dissidents out there. 

 

Of course, the collapse of the AVL would be exactly what the Functionists wanted, but that still didn’t make it -

 

Something hit the top of his head. 

 

Though Rung did not freeze, he felt his whole body tense in its bonds. It had only been a very small something, not even heavy enough to leave a dent - but for a moment, he feared that someone had fired on him after all. 

 

Then a second very small something dropped to the floor right in from of his nose, and he happened to see where it landed. 

 

It was a screw. 

 

Just as Rung processed this, there was the tiniest squeak overhead, followed by a sinuous  _ woosh _ … and then the sound of something much heavier, rapidly descending. 

 

A face popped into view, upside down, right in front of his own. Rung just barely managed not to yelp. 

 

“All right, Eyebrows?” 

 

“I… Excuse me?”

 

Distantly, Rung wondered why out of all of this, the thing he’d decided to pick up on was the nickname. 

 

“Sorry, we’ll have time for proper introductions in a mo’.” The strange blue mech disappeared from view again; Rung felt a slight movement in the beam holding his left arm, as he apparently settled himself there. “We’re on a tight schedule - Glitch can only keep the cameras acting up for so long.”

 

There was a series of intricate clicks, and for the first time in years, the brace around Rung’s neck came loose. Wincing at the stiffness, he turned his head just enough to watch the blue mech set to work on the shackle at his wrist. 

 

“‘Eyebrows’ maybe wasn’t the best choice, I suppose,” said the mech, “but it seemed a bit rude to start off with ‘Hello, Useless One!’, and I only really had a couple of seconds to think of something different.  _ Ha! _ ” 

 

The shackle snapped open and the mech leapt, gracefully, over Rung’s back to land on the opposite beam. 

 

“I won’t lie,” he continued, “I’m not exactly an  _ expert _ at this. Yet. If I accidentally trip something that causes you excruciating pain, I apologise profusely in advance.” 

 

“No need,” Rung managed. “A bit of excruciating pain is how I start off most mornings, I’m afraid to say.”

 

As the right-hand shackle unlocked, Rung felt himself slip, hanging only by his legs now. Before he fell forwards, the mech grabbed his wrist - and looking up into his optics, Rung saw faint shock and a flash of… if not recognition, then solidarity. 

 

“Well, we can’t be having that. I’m only sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” 

 

While he spoke, he was unhooking something from his back: a length of cable, Rung realised, which seemed to be dangling from the ceiling. 

 

“Here.” The mech guided Rung’s hand to the rope, indicating that he should grasp it with both servos. As Rung complied, he swung out of sight once again. 

 

“Hold on tight to that for me, yeah? I’m doing your legs now.” 

 

“Are you AVL?” Rung blurted - apparently unwilling to drop the first friendly conversation he’d had in two million years, even if it meant distracting his rescuer. 

 

His rescuer laughed. “The Anti-Vocationist League? Nooooot exactly. As far as they’re concerned, I am, but between you and me, you’re coming to stay with people who are a little better situated. Able to hide you more safely.” 

 

That was… not entirely reassuring, considering how long he’d been kept ‘safe’ here already. 

 

“Don’t worry.” As Rung’s legs suddenly fell free of their restraints, the blue mech jumped for the end of the rope that dangled between his feet, clambering up until they were face to face. “ _ All _ we’re worried about is making sure the Functionists can’t put their hands all over you anymore.” 

 

An arm went about Rung's waist, and the mech tugged four times on the rope. The rope which Rung then let go of instinctively, flinging his arms around the blue mech’s shoulders (he laughed), as with a sudden lurch, they ascended towards the ceiling. 

 

And - however improbably, considering that five minutes ago, he’d been staring up the barrel of a gun - towards freedom. 

 


End file.
